


maybe i could be in love with someone like you

by ursulamerkle



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Cheating, Infidelity, Inspired by The Last Five Years, M/M, Oops, Quentin Beck Being a Jerk, Songfic, Teacher-Student Relationship, married quentin beck, no proofreading we die like men!!!!, ok quentin beck being pretty overtly misogynistic haha, quentin beck being gently misogynistic, quentin beck can't take responsibility for he own actions...shame, quentin beck loves the f word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 07:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24467059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ursulamerkle/pseuds/ursulamerkle
Summary: Peter was his favorite student. Bright, hard-working, eager to please. Truthfully, Quentin had wanted to fuck him since the moment he laid eyes on him. But he was married. Committed. Bound by the gold band on his left hand to keep it in his pants and do the easiest thing in the world: not fuck one of his goddamn students.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 10
Kudos: 120





	maybe i could be in love with someone like you

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by “nobody needs to know” from the last five years. i incorporated a lot of the lyrics throughout, definitely give the song a listen before you read!!! anyway i wrote this in one day bc i couldn’t get the image of quentin cheating on his spouse w peter out of my sick little head. enjoy !!!

The sun is rising and Quentin is still awake.

He lights another cigarette. He’s chain smoked his way through more than half of the pack he’d bought last night, and he isn’t a heavy smoker. More of a one or two a week kinda guy, really, only indulging when he’s drunk or angry or needs to calm himself down.

Right now, he needs to calm himself down more than ever.

The bedroom is still and quiet. Nothing but the faint sounds of the city waking up outside and the soft breathing of the boy asleep in his bed. 

Against his better judgement, Quentin takes a drag and glances down at him. The mellow rays of the early morning sun cast a warm glow on his face, shine through his hair and make his curls look as though they’re spun from gold.

He looks like an angel.

Quentin wishes he felt as peaceful as the boy looks. He’s curled up in Quentin’s bed like he belongs there, tangled up in the sheets that Quentin will have to wash when he leaves, to clean up the evidence of his indiscretion. Maybe Quentin will keep the pillowcase he slept on, switch it with his own so he could drift off to sleep smelling his honey-scented shampoo—no. Too risky.

He takes another drag. The panic recedes.

When Quentin had invited Peter back for a drink at his place, he hadn’t intended on this. At least, that was the lie he would tell himself.

Peter was his favorite student. Bright, hard-working, eager to please. Truthfully, Quentin had wanted to fuck him since the moment he laid eyes on him. But he was married. Committed. Bound by the gold band on his left hand to keep it in his pants and do the easiest thing in the world: not fuck one of his goddamn students.

But then things got hard. His wife was gone for work more and more often, and when she wasn’t, she was snippy, irritable, always looking for something to pick a fight about. Maybe that’s because there were lots of things to pick fights about, who knows. Quentin was never good at the whole being married thing, even when things weren’t hard.

And then, after a phone call with her had ended in a particularly earth-shattering screaming match, who should waltz into his office hours but Peter Parker, looking pretty as a picture, asking him if he could _take him to dinner and pick his brain?_ And because it would be a fucking felony to say no to those puppy dog eyes, Quentin had agreed. 

Dinner had ended and it should have ended there. But his wife was gone and Quentin had a bottle of wine at his place that he’d been meaning to open, and Peter would look so sweet with his cheeks flushed with drink and his lips stained with red wine, so he at least had to offer. Then the ball was in Peter’s court. He could say no.

He didn’t. In fact, he had positively beamed at Quentin, telling him how much he would _really like that_ and Jesus Christ, Quentin was so completely fucking screwed.

The wine had flowed as easily as the conversation. Quentin even had to open a second bottle (no, he didn’t _have to,_ but he did). As expected, Peter had looked adorable after the first glass and absolutely ravishing after the fourth. Quentin made sure to pointedly gesticulate with his left hand whenever possible, but if Peter had noticed the occasional gentle _clink_ of Quentin’s wedding ring against his glass, he gave no indication.

When Peter tripped over himself and practically fell into Quentin’s lap, Quentin didn’t push him off. Instead, he’d reached out and carefully brushed his thumb across his lower lip, his wedding band resting cold and indifferent on Peter’s flushed skin.

 _I wanna kiss you so bad,_ Peter had whispered, eyes averted. Like he was embarrassed to admit it, even straddling Quentin’s thighs the way he was.

 _So why don’t you,_ Quentin murmured, tilting Peter’s chin up to force his gaze.

When Peter breathed the words, _what about your wife?,_ it had almost, _almost_ given Quentin pause. But Peter looked so pained and so scared that the need to kiss his worry away outweighed the five years of marriage under his belt.

There was something much more pressing under Quentin’s belt right now, and his wife wasn’t here to take care of that, was she?

Peter Parker was.

Quentin sighed, touched Peter’s cheek. _I haven’t been this happy in a long time,_ he’d said.

Apparently, that was exactly what Peter needed to hear to finally lean in and kiss him.

Quentin fucked him right there, half their clothes still on, Peter bent over the arm of the couch and moaning his name high and loud, an orgasmic litany of _Mr. Beck, please, Mr. Beck!_ And because it would be cruel of Quentin to turn Peter out on the street, clothes dirty and fucked out and still a little drunk, he let him spend the night. Then fucked him again in his bed.

He took his sweet time undressing Peter, and holy shit was he glad he did that. Peter was gorgeous, all sculpted, lean muscle like a marble statue come to life. He fucked him rough and hard, Peter’s legs hooked around his waist, before flipping them over and letting Peter ride him till he came, untouched, on Quentin’s cock.

And now, here they are. The gears turning in Quentin’s mind ceaselessly, the guilt and panic and self-hatred all-consuming, except when it wasn’t; when he looked at Peter beside him, a beautiful reminder of the very deliberate mistake he’d made.

Quentin ashes his cigarette in the cup of water on his nightstand, reaches out and runs his hand through Peter’s hair. Soft. Real. Here. The panic recedes.

A little voice in the back of his head whispers _nobody needs to know._

Peter stirs under Quentin’s touch, his eyes fluttering open.

“Hey, kid,” Quentin murmurs, brushing the hair out of his eyes, “good morning.”

Peter’s pink mouth curves into a sleepy smile as he rubs his eyes and curls into Quentin’s side. “Morning.”

God, Quentin wants to fuck him again. Just one more time.

“We should get up, kid,” Quentin tells him, but he makes no move to leave. In fact, he settles further under the covers, wraps his arm around Peter. Kisses his forehead.

He’s craving another cigarette, to push the panic back down. But Peter’s tucking himself against his chest, humming contentedly and making it very hard to think about anything but _him._

What the hell is Quentin doing? This isn’t real. But _fuck,_ he wants to pretend for just a little while longer. Pretend that this is a normal day, that Peter always sleeps here, that this is their bed. That his wife isn’t waiting for him, expecting him to get on a plane tonight and come see her and her fucking parents in Ohio. _Fucking Ohio._

Quentin has to go. She’s paranoid enough as it is, always wanting to know who he’s with and when and why. It isn’t entirely her fault; Quentin has a wandering eye and a naturally flirtatious disposition. He’d had to swear up and down and on _several_ Bibles (he’s fucking Jewish!) that he wasn’t sleeping with one of his colleagues, a professor in the lit department who’d asked him out once for coffee early on in his marriage. Quentin had politely turned her down because he was a Good Husband. But he’d made the mistake of taking his wife to some goddamn faculty Christmas party last year and when she’d seen the two of them talking by the refreshments table she’d gone ballistic when they got home. Insisted they were fucking, wouldn’t listen to reason or let Quentin get a word in edgewise, and collapsed in a pathetic heap of tears when Quentin called her an “insecure, neurotic bitch.”

Not the best choice of words. But it got her off his back.

Peter sits up and runs a hand through his hair, glancing at Quentin over his shoulder with a sheepish smile. “I should go.”

“So soon?” Quentin pouts, leaning forward and resting his chin on Peter’s shoulder. “What’s your hurry?”

“I have...class,” Peter says, pulling away from Quentin.

“Kid, it’s Saturday.”

Peter looks at him. “Okay, we just slept together, you _have_ to stop calling me that.”

“Old habits,” Quentin says, grinning. “What would you prefer?”

He kisses Peter’s neck.

“Sweetheart?”

Another kiss.

“Honey?”

Peter whimpers quietly. “If you don’t stop that, I’m never gonna leave.”

“That’s sort of the idea,” Quentin purrs. “Come back to bed.”

He wraps his arms around Peter’s waist and presses persistent kisses to his shoulder, scraping his beard along his skin. 

“I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” Peter breathes, half-heartedly pushing at Quentin’s arms.

“Not possible,” Quentin says. 

Peter bites his lip, worried. “Are you sure?”

“I promise,” he whispers against his neck. “I won’t lie to you.”

One last kiss to Peter’s neck and he relents, letting himself be pressed down into the mattress and stripped of his underwear.

And sweet Christ, fucking him is even better when they’re sober. Quentin takes him slow and sweet, and he feels like a motherfucking superhero when Peter starts crying, _begging_ him to _fuck him harder, please._

Quentin is more than happy to oblige.

He’s in too deep. Literally and figuratively. He made his bed, and now he has to lie in it. Thankfully, that’s an easy thing to do with Peter’s hips bucking into his hand as he fucks him senseless and jerks him off, whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

As Quentin's orgasm rips through him, the voice comes back, louder, as he slams into Peter one last time: _nobody needs to know._

* * *

When Quentin steps off the plane and checks his phone, he has three missed calls from his wife. 

And four unread texts from one Peter Parker.

_i can’t stop thinking about last night_

_when can i see you again??_

_(this is peter by the way)_

_(parker)_

Quentin tries not to smile. The kid is endearingly awkward. His ring clicks against the back of his phone as he texts him back.

_Hi, Peter by the way Parker. I can’t stop thinking about you, either. In Ohio for the weekend (long story) but I get back Monday night if you’re free then?_

As he slides into the Uber waiting for him outside the airport, his phone buzzes with another text. He still hasn’t called her back yet. Shit.

_yeah i think i could maybe do monday night :)_

Quentin chuckles.

_Counting the minutes. See you then, honey._

Just one more time.

**Author's Note:**

> :-))))) quentin beck is a son of a bitch and i would let him drop a building on top of me
> 
> follow me on twitter @ursulamerkles if thats ur thing. thank u for reading!!!


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